In Mexico, Finding Love on the Beach (At Least for a Little While)

I went to Mexico last March to sit on a beach and read for a week because I’d forgotten that being alone for extended periods of time tends to cause me great anxiety. A friend of a friend had recommended Isla Holbox, a little island off the northern tip of the Yucatán that’s not yet been overrun by awful tourists (like me). Cheap and relaxed and full of delicious seafood, she told me. A great place to be alone, she told me. I booked an Airbnb and a flight and stocked up on sunscreen while winter ripped through New York. I bought two flimsy white dresses on ASOS—out of character for me, because I am stain-prone. An encouraging friend likened them to napkins: I’d use them once, then be done with them.

By my fourth day there I was not miserable, but I was miserably restless. Also very aware of how silly this restlessness was, considering I was on a tropical island by myself, able to do whatever I wanted, and I had even found the hidden beach groves where you could nap in the shade of low, bushy trees for hours while shallow waters lapped virgin sand nearby. I had plans to end my trip with two nights in Tulum, and after some deliberation I decided to jump the gun and leave a day early; Tulum was trendy and swimming with yoga retreat groupies, but I’d happily take them over isolation. I booked a hostel, checked the next day’s ferry times, then resolved to take myself out to dinner.

I brought a book and sat down at one end of the bar and saw a potentially handsome man at the other end. I started reading and ordered a drink and by the time it came, he had somehow migrated to my end, and then somehow I was chatting to the man in between us, and then I was chatting with both of them, and then the man between us left, and then what do you know? There we were, me and Sebastián (I’ve changed his name, it’s a small island). Turned out he worked for the owner of the restaurant, who soon joined us. I ordered my food, went to the bathroom, and as I settled back into my seat I heard the owner quietly say in Spanish, “Invite her to go fishing tomorrow.” I feigned surprise when the invite came, then said yes, then wondered what was going on, whether this was a thing they did often. We chatted while I ate—Sebas had a lot of questions about Trump—and then he left, telling me to meet him at the restaurant at 9:00 a.m., and then I was all aflutter, and then I went home.

The next morning he didn’t say much, blamed it on exhaustion. We picked up a few bottles of water and he bought me an apple, then showed me to our little skiff, which I awkwardly helped him untie. We were supposed to be out for three hours or so, catch some fish for the restaurant, then bring it back, and hopefully eat some of our bounty. Eight hours later, we were just getting back to land; he’d caught one little wriggler and I’d caught nothing. But he taught me how to cast, and I didn’t once fling a bait hook into his mouth, and we took a break at—I shit you not—a place called Paradise Island, where we walked through high grass and lounged in shallow water and I told him about my life and he told me about his. I couldn’t stop thinking about whether he’d kiss me. It was all extremely confusing and exciting. I forgot to reapply my sunscreen.

We returned to the restaurant exhausted and parched and burnt, and proceeded to spend a few more hours at the bar, drinking bottles of Victoria and picking at ceviche. Sebas was warm and charming and calm, curious about the details of my life but never much of a flirt. We’d gone long stretches in the boat without talking but it never felt awkward. He gave me his own story in bits and pieces, a grown-up lost boy, happy on his own. He was manly and bearded and occasionally gruff, but his smile softened everything around him, and often.

Earlier in the day, he’d told me I could stay at his place to save some money if I liked; he had a hammock that he could sleep in, and I could take the bed. He offered it like you’d offer a stick of gum, emotionless and ambivalent. I giggled and said no thank you. When we parted ways that evening the invite came again: I could stay there, or maybe come over later and watch a movie. I tried not to laugh, because if I did I might have to explain the concept of Netflix and chill, which, despite my passable Spanish language skills, would be difficult to translate. He showed me where he lived; I went home and showered, panicking and thrilled, then returned on my bike, little white dress waving behind me, because what else was I supposed to do?

We lay on his bed listening to music for two miserable hours, like teenagers in their parents’ basements. I finally convinced myself I could kiss him, and did. My plans for Tulum quickly disappeared, and the next morning I moved my things from my Airbnb to his apartment.

We had five days together, then, spending the mornings lounging before he went to work, spending the evenings together after he got back, cooking dinner on a hot plate, and listening to the frogs chatter outside. We watched movies dubbed into Spanish and had long conversations about nothing and one night the power went out and we walked to a candlelit restaurant in the dark. It felt like a real love affair, fleeting and dramatic. I was falling in love with what was happening as much as I was falling for him.

Because, of course I convinced myself I was falling in love. I am a sucker and I love men and I love romance and we were having a very nice time and I wish I could explain how handsome he is. The “what if I just moved here?” question went from sounding crazy to sounding rational. For the first time in my life, my brain formulated the following thought: “What if I just got pregnant?” I began to understand why people do insane things. I began to feel like an insane person.

I had to leave on a 6:00 a.m. ferry; I woke up at 5:00 a.m. and immediately started crying. “You’re leaving and I’ve just started falling for you,” he said, only I didn’t know if he meant falling in love or just generic falling, since the nuances of the verb enamorarse were lost on me. The fact of my own leaving felt like an injustice, and as much as I wanted him to make some dramatic statement or demand or proclamation, to beg me to stay, he didn’t.

I got back to Brooklyn and cried some more. I couldn’t figure out how this story was supposed to end, or continue, or resolve itself. Girl goes to island, girl meets boy, girl may or may not have fallen in love with boy, girl goes home, boy can’t come visit her, so all she can do is try to coyly get him to ask her to come back, which will never happen, since he’s not the assertive type. I wrote bad poems; I made friends listen to me talk in circles; I listened as they told me I should just be happy that it happened; I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. I’d work up the courage to tell him I missed him over WhatsApp, only to get an emoji in return. Finally Sebas called me on the phone, and I said maybe I could come back; I had enough miles to cover a return trip. I think he laughed at me. His answer was ambiguous: “If you want to come, I’ll be here.” It was one of the first times I’d ever asked a man for what I wanted, I realized, but it still left me feeling uneasy. The story had to end somehow, but I hated the idea of a fizzle.

Mid-May, I was planning a trip to California to visit friends and attend a wedding. The night before I left, I got a message from him, basically an international “u up?” saying I should come visit. He’d hinted at it in recent weeks, but it had never felt serious. I said yes, he said are you sure, and then I brought my passport to California, because I love rash decisions.

And so we spent another five days together. I got to wrap my body around him again, and he called me loca once again, and we could both laugh at me and the silly thing I’d done. It was very nice, and despite his teasing, made me feel less crazy, that there was something here to come back to after all.

We fell back into the same routine: mornings and evenings together, with days that I spent on my own. One night my computer died, and we got into a fight because he told me women don’t take very good care of their cars, so maybe I wasn’t taking very good care of my computer. He knew I was angry but wouldn’t apologize. I tried to move past it. He’d gotten quieter, too; we had less to talk about, and I found myself grasping at straws, not unhappy but not brimming with joy like I’d been before. I felt restless once again. We had another nice time and I regretted nothing and every night he’d kiss me and smile and call me crazy for coming, which I took as his agreement that this was okay. I’d come back, I realized, to see what happened if I came back. The morning I left, I didn’t cry or complain or object, I just kissed him and told him we’d see each other again someday, which I believed to be true, and got on that same ferry under that same dark sky.